A Collection of Oneshots
by Deadalive15
Summary: This is a collection of all the oneshots I've ever written all in one convenient package. Please read the introduction for more information.
1. Introduction

This is a collection of oneshots. It's all the oneshots I've ever written, in fact. Some of them are already here, but most of them are new. I thought it would be a good idea to have them all in one place. As of today, May 25, 2009, this collection chronicles almost a year's worth of writing and it is still growing. You will find that none of these fics build off each other, or even have anything to do with each other. It is strictly a collection of oneshots.

These fics will be in chronological order, chapter 1 being my first ever oneshot, Alone, and the latest chapter, currently chapter 19, being my most recent oneshot, currently A Letter to Kutner in Thirteen's Name. Many of these oneshots were written in response to a specific episode. If this is the case I will make a note that the beginning of the entry. You will also find the date written at the end of the fic. I will also note at the beginning of the entry if the rating differs from the rating of the overall collection, K+.

You'll also notice that I've selected angst/tragedy as the genre and Thirteen as the character. That is because this is true for most of these entries, though not all. I've selected House as the other character simply because it's his show and these are his employees and none of this could have happened without him.

I just thought I'd give an introduction so you'll know what to expect, so enjoy, and please review if you have the time. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I didn't make any money from any of these oneshots and I'm pretty sure none of these characters are mine.


	2. Alone

Written in response to Wilson's Heart (4x16)

* * *

Alone

It would have been the same either way. That was what she had tried to tell herself. If it came back negative, no harm, no foul. If it came back positive she was always going to die either way. The only difference was now she would know.

She'd pictured this moment dozens of times in her head. She'd thought she'd been adequately prepared for it. She was wrong. She realized now she never could have prepared herself for anything like this.

It was suffocating, the disappointment she felt. She'd always known her chances weren't good, but she'd always had hope. There had always been a chance. That was all sucked away now. There was no such thing as hope anymore. Hope was meaningless to her. It didn't matter.

She'd never been timid. Fear hadn't been a huge factor in any of her major decisions, except when it came to this. And as much as she hated to admit it, this had made all the difference.

This had defined her. It had become her, eclipsed her real personality, and she had helped it, tried to hide behind secrets and nicknames. She could never forget who she really was. She was forced to remember every time someone called out to her, called her by name, or rather, lack of name.

No one knew her. No tried. No one even knew her name. They had never asked, so she had never told. Instead, she was who they had made her, who they had told her to be. To the world she was nameless. It would make no difference to them if she died.

She remembered something someone had once told her. You can't choose your birth, and you can't choose your death, but she couldn't help wondering, what if you could?

Against her wishes, her mind began to swim backwards to, not a happier time, a different time, a time that seemed like it was from a different life, someone else's.

She'd never had a real childhood. She'd been forced to grow up early, really early, before she could remember. She had never had friends either. She'd never been on the same level as anyone else her age. She had been through too much, and they hadn't been through enough.

The other thing she'd never had was a real family. She supposed she had had one at one point, long before she could remember. Everything she remembered about her mother had been in a hospital. Everything she remembered about her father she had tried to erase.

She'd raised herself, while others had had everything handed to them: money, grades, futures. She had worked for all that. She had worked hard. She had accomplished more than most of them, because, unlike them, she had had to try.

It didn't matter what she had accomplished though. She would never be able to enjoy it. She had no one to care about all the things she'd done. Her mother was gone, and her father hadn't cared about anything for a long time.

All those people she'd passed up, a lot of them worked on cars now, or roofs, or pipes, but they had families: parents, children, who were proud of them. No one had ever been proud of her, not that she could remember anyway.

She was alone. She had always been alone. At all her school assemblies she was alone. On all her birthdays she was alone. At her graduation, she was alone. No one cared. No ever had.

That was why she would have to go through this alone. This would be worse than doing a dance number in the school play and knowing no one was watching her, than not getting anything for her birthday, than being the only one who didn't have a cheering section at graduation. That had hardly mattered at the time, and it didn't matter at all now. This was the last thing she would experience. She would be depressed, she would be in pain, and she would be alone.

Before now, being alone had never bothered her. She'd been used to it. She hadn't known anything else. Growing up, the first person she saw walking into school in the morning was the first person she saw that day, and hopefully, the last person she saw leaving school would be the last person she saw that day. She came home to an empty apartment, and she always prayed that it would stay that way until she fell asleep. If not, it meant dealing with her father.

She'd done everything for herself, always. If the pantry was empty she went to the store alone. If she'd outgrown her clothes, she went to the store alone, even as a child. The only place she never went was the bank. She had a small amount of money, money she had earned herself, doing jobs for neighbors, and when she was old enough, at work. She didn't trust banks. If it was in a bank, her father could get to it. If it was behind a locked bedroom door in a shoe box tucked into a hole in the drywall behind a poster over her bed, it would be harder.

She brought herself back to the present. She had a long road ahead of her. She always had. The thought depressed her. The only difference, she pointed out to herself again, was that now she knew it.

She would have given nearly anything to go back a week, to when she treated the soap opera star, or two weeks, to when she treated the man who was too nice, so she could be blissfully ignorant one more time, so she could have that last shard of hope that she had lost. So she could believe once more, that she had what so many of her colleagues had, what she now realized was a luxury: time.

They would never know, she had decided, not that they would care if they did. She would quietly get worse and worse, sicker and sicker, until one day she would be too sick to come in, to do her job. They would never know what happened.

As someone had once told her, it wasn't the dying that got to people; it was the dying alone.

* * *

Written June 22, 2008


	3. Stand In the Rain

Written in response to Wilson's Heart (4x16)

* * *

Stand In the Rain

She took a deep breath, then exhaled. She stood, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her face to the sky.

She was soaked by now, and she was sure House was looking for her, but she didn't care.

To be outside in the rain had always seemed peaceful to her, serene, and the harder it was raining, the better. That's why today, when the rain was coming down in sheets, after she'd just heard, or rather read, the worst news in the world, she couldn't resist.

She was right in the middle of the parking lot. If anyone looked out their windows they would see her, but she didn't care. She was facing out into the rest of the world, the hospital at her back.

The rain had a calming effect on her. It always had. The cool water hitting her face, the sound it made when it hit the pavement. It took her to other places, places where she didn't necessarily have to be her.

That had been the point when she came here, but it hadn't worked. Her past had caught up with her. It wasn't so easy to pretend you were someone else in real life.

She wondered how long she'd been standing there. On one hand, she didn't care. She fully intended to stay there until the rain stopped, but on the other hand, it would still be nice to know.

The rain made her forget her problems, it was only temporary, a quick fix, but if it could give her ever half an hour of happiness, or something like it, she was grateful.

Her hair was soaked by now, as if someone had just poured a bucket of water on her head. Her clothes and her lab coat were sticking to her. She was sure her necklace was so wet she wouldn't be able to see the time.

Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She didn't look to see who it was. She didn't care, and maybe, if she didn't acknowledge them, they'd go away.

"Thirteen?" the person said nervously, stepping into her range of sight.

"Are you okay?" Kutner asked, his voice dripping with so much concern it was almost tangible.

She hadn't intended to say anything. She wanted to remain caught up in her own world, and to answer, especially to answer truthfully, would be a sign of weakness. But she opened her mouth and choked out the word, "No."

"Tell me," Kutner spoke softly.

Thirteen shook her head, at the same time wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face the shoulder of her lab coat. For the first time since she was six, Thirteen cried.

She'd never been much for hugs. In fact, all her life she'd cringed at the idea of a hug. Whenever someone had hugged her she'd stiffen up. She'd never been much for crying either, but today, she needed a hug. She just needed to vent for a while. Then she'd go back into the hospital as if nothing had happened.

Clearly Kutner was shocked. Obviously he'd never expected her to hug him, to cry on his shoulder, to hold him there in a death grip. This was Thirteen. She was strong, tough as nails. She never showed emotion, and she never needed anyone. Whatever this was, if she couldn't get it to bounce off of her, it was big.

Kutner awkwardly wrapped his arms around her. He'd never been good at consolation, especially when the other party was in tears, but as long as he didn't have to say anything, he figured it would be okay.

He looked back towards the hospital. He could just make out the doctors inside.

Foreman and Taub stood at the door. They had all been looking for her together. Kutner had been the only one willing to come outside. He thought Cameron from the ER, who used to be on House's team, was there to. It was someone blond with pink scrubs anyway.

He looked back at Thirteen. She seemed to be nearly done crying.

Just as he thought it, she relinquished her hold on him and stepped back, quickly brushing away her tears.

"Sorry," she said quietly.

"No, it's fine," Kutner assured her.

"I'm not usually this emotional—"

"I know."

"I'm just really tired," Thirteen explained. "I haven't slept."

"Thirteen…" Kutner hesitated. "What happened to you?"

Thirteen looked away, deciding if she should tell him or not. Maybe he already suspected. That day in the elevator before Christmas he had asked, and her answer, now that she thought about it, had been very suspicious.

But she just sighed and shook her head and looked back at him, and Kutner knew better than to ask again.

"Do you want to go back inside?" Kutner asked, uncertainly.

Thirteen nodded, and she and Kutner began silently toward the hospital entrance. Everyone who had been standing at the door had disappeared, probably because they'd seen them coming back inside.

Thirteen took a deep breath as she placed her hand on the door to push it open.

"I'm dying," she said, not looking at Kutner, not wanting to see the shock written across his face.

And with that, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, leaving Kutner standing, seemingly frozen, in the rain.

* * *

Written July 19, 2008


	4. Fairytale Ending

Written in response to Wilson's Heart (4x16)

* * *

Fairytale Ending

If this were a fairytale, she would have been stuck in a tower surrounded by a lava-filled moat and guarded by a dragon, waiting for Prince Charming to come save her.

If this were a fairytale, she would have been given a gift, a mirror or a glass slipper, that she wouldn't know the true meaning of until she met her prince.

If this were a fairytale, she would be in a deep sleep, waiting for a simple kiss to make everything better.

If this were a fairytale, she would have a talent, the ability to talk to animals or inanimate objects, and she would definitely be able to sing.

If this were a fairytale, it would have a happy ending.

Unfortunately, this was not a fairytale. This reality, and the reality was, fairytales were in books, not life.

There were two things Thirteen had noticed about fairytales. Number one: they always had happy endings, and number two: they always revolved around true love, usually with a prince.

Thirteen didn't know any princes, and she certainly didn't have a true love, but even if she did, her life was no fairytale, not even close.

She hadn't read fairytales since she was six, when she'd packed all her storybooks, along with a great deal more of her possessions, away in a box and stored it in the back of her closet, never to be opened again, but she knew the basics: Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Rapunzel.

To Thirteen, the hospital was her tower, fear was her lava moat and her dragon, and hope had been Prince Charming, but now that hope had been whisked away, it was like hearing that Prince Charming had been killed along the journey or decided to rescue some other princess.

The only thing that could save her now was a superhero, but superheroes weren't in fairytales. They were in comic books, and that would be a completely different metaphor, in which the Joker was fear and Batman had been hit by a train.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in fear. Then one day, her fears were confirmed. The End.

Some fairytale, there wasn't even a 'happily ever after.' There wasn't even a prince. There wasn't even a glass slipper. There wasn't even a ball at the castle or seven dwarfs. She didn't even have a fairy godmother. If she did, she knew what she'd wish for. She didn't even have really long hair, and if she did, she'd never let someone climb up it. She'd probably yell down at them: "You came all this way and you didn't bring a ladder?"

Well, at least this way she knew. At least this way she wouldn't sit in a tower waiting for a prince that would never come. At least this way she knew she wasn't in a fairytale. Never had a fairytale princess died alone. They probably never even died.

At least this way, she knew her ending wouldn't be happy.

* * *

Written July 25, 2008


	5. There Are Sailing Ships That Pass

Written in response to Wilson's Heart (4x16)

* * *

There Are Sailing Ships That Pass

It was a horrible thought. He could hardly bear to give it even the smallest place in his mind. It caused so much pain to an already injured human being. And yet, it was entirely true.

The fact was, that Amber had been just another phase in his life, just as Lori, and Bonnie, and Julie had been. He'd met her. They'd fallen in love. The only difference was that this time, they hadn't fallen back out of love.

To Wilson, his life had been all about phases: the pre-marital phase, the Lori, the Bonnie, the Julie, and now, the Amber phase, though Wilson knew, even though Amber was gone, the Amber phase was not over. He knew the Amber phase would be the longest, the most significant, and maybe never end, because Wilson felt like he should be in pain forever.

In a way, it was like sitting on the shore watching boats pass by. They all took a while to pass, and they all left behind waves, but Amber was the biggest boat that made the biggest waves, which took the longest to smooth back out.

He remembered a line he'd seen in a movie once. It was a movie about a woman who'd lost her husband. He didn't remember the name.

_You made my life, but I'm just one chapter in yours_.

The point was that they'd been in love when he'd died, but now that he was gone, he wanted her to move on, to meet someone else.

Wilson knew Amber would want him to move on, but he hated that metaphor. Amber was much more than a chapter in his life. For those four months, she had been his whole life.

And Wilson wasn't ready to move on.

He knew Amber hadn't left him letters telling him how to get back on his feet like the man in the movie, because the man had known he was dying ahead of time. It had been cancer, Wilson's specialty.

Wilson only had the note. It was probably the last thing she'd ever written.

To Wilson, the note was the most personal thing he had left of her, more personal than all the clothes in her closet or all her pictures, or even the videos, because the note had been written to him from her, because he'd found it after she was gone, because the so unsuspecting of her fate when she written it, because it was in her handwriting, and most of all, because it reminded him of the part of Amber that was behind a mask, the part that was willing to do anything to make it work, even going to pick up House in a bar in the middle of the night when she was sick, because it reminded him that her willingness to do anything to make it work killed her.

Wilson knew that as much as he hated to admit it, it was true. Amber had only been a chapter in his life, and as much as he wanted to stop time and sit there consumed with grief forever, he had to move on, no matter how much he didn't want to, because life was making him.

* * *

Written August 1, 2008


	6. Piano Man

Piano Man

His leg had been unusually painful today. He'd had to pop so much vicodin that every single one of his clinic patients had noticed. Even Wilson, Cuddy, and Foreman had commented on how much he was taking. Luckily, his team didn't know him well enough yet to suspect increased pain as a reason to doubt his judgment.

House would have gone to Cuddy for another shot of morphine, but he wasn't sure how much he trusted her after the placebo. He couldn't go to Wilson, who would tell him it was psychological. He was just missing Chase and Cameron, or something like that, and he would never go to Foreman.

He rubbed his leg and winced in pain.

Ingrid, the masseuse, hadn't even been in today.

He'd made an excuse to get out of the hospital early. He had the phone within reach so if they called he wouldn't have to get up.

He adjusted himself so he was right in the middle of the bench, then, after positioning his fingers above the appropriate keys, he began to play.

The piano took his mind off the pain. Even if it was only temporary, it was worth it. He enjoyed the piano.

He played through every song he knew from memory, including a few he'd made up.

The music was like a wave of fresh water o a beach. When the wave rushed back out to sea it took all the rocks and shells with it, it cleared away the foot prints, leaving only pure white sand.

It was a happier metaphor than he usually used, but since the only time he wasn't in pain was while playing the piano, he thought it seemed to fit.

Foreman would tell him it was stupid. They play only took his mind off the pain. It didn't make it disappear. That was probably true.

Wilson would tell him playing the piano brought back happy memories or something like that, because Wilson always thought the pain was psychological. That was crap.

Cuddy would tell him if playing the piano helped, go for it. That was what House intended to do.

There were some things that could be cured with medications and some things that couldn't. For those things, you had to look for a different treatment. House had found his.

* * *

Written August 4, 2008


	7. Taking the Plunge

Written in response to Wilson's Heart (4x16)

* * *

Taking the Plunge

She hadn't planned on this. She'd only come here to be alone, but once she was here, the idea struck her.

The sun was shining down and the there was a light breeze blowing through the surrounding trees.

_It shouldn't be this nice out_, she thought. _Not now_.

Her arms and legs shook as she hoisted herself up onto the wall.

She was higher up than anything else she could see. Looking over the parking lot, the cars appeared no larger than toys. She could see the world.

She'd heard someone say in a movie once that people who fell to their deaths, it was rarely the impact that actually killed them. They died with the air rushing against their faces. She knew she would end up a mess on the sidewalk, but what a way to go.

She still had her lab coat on. That way, when she was a mess on the sidewalk, she'd know who she was, that she wasn't just a patient, escaped from the psych ward. She was a doctor.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared to step into thin air.

"Thirteen!"

It came as such a surprise she jumped and nearly lost her balance and fell off the hospital.

"What are you doing up here?" she asked coldly.

"What are you doing up there?" Wilson replied. It was a rhetorical question. She knew he knew what she was about to do.

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson asked, narrowing his eyebrows.

"You wouldn't understand," Thirteen answered, turning her back too him again.

"Wouldn't I?" Wilson asked, moving closer to her, clearly anticipating her jump.

"It's not why you think," Thirteen said. "This has nothing to do with Amber."

"Then why?" Wilson demanded. "What could possibly cause you to do something like this?"

"I'm dying anyway," Thirteen shrugged. "The only variable is how and why."

"So am I," Wilson said. "So is everybody. Just because you've finally come to grips with your own mortality is no reason to kill yourself. How do you know you won't live to be a hundred?"

"I…I just…know, okay?" Thirteen asked. "If you were in my position, you'd be doing the same thing."

"What is your position?" Wilson asked.

"You don't want to know," Thirteen answered. "So why are you up here?" Thirteen asked, changing the subject.

"This is where House used to come to think," Wilson answered. "I thought I'd give it a shot."

"Well, if you don't mind, I have something to do," Thirteen said. "And it's hard enough without you watching."

Wilson reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"How many times have you watched a person die?" he asked.

Thirteen took a deep breath.

"Three," she said quietly.

"It's easier to die than to watch someone die," Wilson said.

Thirteen gave a hollow laugh.

"Who'd you hear that one from?" she asked.

"Dr. Cameron," Wilson admitted. "She used to be much more naïve. It doesn't matter, anyway. You can't do this."

"Why not?" Thirteen demanded.

"If nothing else, think of everyone inside," Wilson said. "Everyone that just got back from a funeral. Do you really want them to have to go to another one, this one knowing they could have prevented?"

"They couldn't have prevented it though," Thirteen said, shaking her head.

"That's not how they'll take it," Wilson said. "Do you really want to do that to them?"

"No, but if I don't do this…" Thirteen hesitated. "I just want to die with a little dignity."

"You can live with dignity. You can't die with it," Wilson said.

Thirteen looked back at him.

"That one I got from House," he told her before she could ask.

"This is something I have to do," Thirteen said, turning back around again. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Wilson said.

Thirteen shook her head.

"Well, I'm not letting you jump," Wilson said. "You can walk down the stairs with me, or I can carry you. Which do you prefer?"

Thirteen sighed. Then she turned around and stepped down from the wall, back onto the roof of the hospital.

"I'm not letting go of your wrist," Wilson informed her.

Then he lead her back down the stairs into the hospital.

* * *

Written August 8, 2008


	8. Broken Things

Broken Things

Most things, when they are broken, are worth nothing. It's a fact of life, sad but true.

You'll occasionally run across a child who doesn't want to give up his wagon because the wheel fell off or who refuses to get rid of her favorite stuffed animal just because it has a rip down its back and all the stuffing is falling out, but that wasn't the case here.

Most broken things are so worthless, in fact, that it doesn't matter how they are disposed of. Should we throw away the brush with the handle broken off? Or we could give it to the kids. They'll play with anything. Or we could try to sell it at the next garage sale.

The truth was, as much as she hated to admit it, Thirteen was broken. She had been for a long time. She would never tell you if you asked. She didn't want to be disposed off, and if you knew, that's what would happen. That's how it always worked out in the end.

They would start out saying they didn't care. It really didn't matter. She meant more to them than that, but in the end they would tire of her closed-off-ness and leave.

She tried to tell herself she didn't care. They weren't that important. She hadn't known them very long anyway, but the truth was, she was always hoping to find the one who was honest, the one who really, truly didn't mind that she would never share her deepest secrets. But the longer she lived, the more she was starting to doubt that that person was even out there.

Another thing that Thirteen would never admit. She was lonely.

And yet she couldn't count the number of times she'd woken up wishing she was the only person in her bed. She understood that people made mistakes, but she made a lot of mistakes, mistakes she always regretted.

She wasn't miserable. She wasn't trying to self destruct. She just want…well…she wasn't really sure, or maybe she just didn't want to admit it to herself. Either way, it wasn't what she had, wasn't even close.

She could walk into anywhere in the city and find people she didn't want ready to throw themselves at her. She could find things she didn't want in a heartbeat.

There was one, but he was the only man she'd ever met who didn't try to ask her out the first time he saw her. That made her nervous.

He was also not the kind of man you'd expect some who looked like she did to be with. He was cute in a dorky sort of way. He likes sci-fi and superheroes. He was less judgmental than anyone she'd ever met. He hadn't excluded the fact that she might be a good doctor the moment he saw her face, like so many of his colleagues had.

He was just different. It was like he was above it all, though Thirteen knew it was more likely that he was just oblivious to it.

And when she reminded herself that he wouldn't want her, that she was used and broken. Why would anyone want that when they could have something shiny and new, right of the shelf.

She had given up hope on that particular man long ago, but it didn't stop the pain. Lowering her expectations didn't cushion the disappointment a bit.

"Thirteen, do you have the PCR test results?" a voice behind her asked.

"Oh, yes," Thirteen turned her back to Kutner and pushed aside the file looking for the print-out. "Here it is."

"Thank," Kutner said. "House told me if you didn't have it finished by now I had to fire you. This is a relief."

Thirteen laughed. It was forced and hollow, but Kutner didn't seem to notice as her turned to leave.

As soon as the door swung shut Thirteen turned away from the door and let fall a single tear.

She took a deep breath and wiped it away as she got up to follow Kutner down the hall.

She was broken, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that.

* * *

Written September 1, 2008


	9. The List

Written in response to Wilson's Heart (4x16)

* * *

The List

Some people keep lists of everything they want to do before they die. Those lists usually include things like "go to Paris" or "buy a sailboat."

Often people keep their lists in a safe place, often not even telling relatives and closest friends the things that were on it.

Often these lists were often started when their creator was a child or a teenager. Often it's even the original piece of paper, so some of the first items on the list were "buy a pony" or "go on an upside-down rollercoaster."

Often people looked over these first few items and laughed about their past ambitions, having achieved some of them with out even knowing it.

Often these lists were among people's most prized possessions. Often they are the first and last things people think about every day.

To Thirteen, that was all a load of crap. You didn't need a list. It was one more thing to obsess over.

And if you had one, you certainly didn't need to complete everything on it. People's goals change between the ages of five and fifteen, fifteen and thirty-five, thirty-five and fifty.

Who wanted to go get their eyebrow pierced at age forty, when it was the last thing they wanted to do, just because they wrote it on a list when they were seventeen.

Besides, Thirteen found that going through life thinking about all the things you hadn't done wasn't the best strategy.

Instead, Thirteen had a different list, a list of things she had done, a list that was much more impressive than most of the lists people wrote about things they wanted to do.

Soon she would be adding one more thing to here list, something that would seal her fate, to her at least, because of course her fate had been sealed for a very long time already.

What she would add the moment she arrived home would cause her to give up the one thing she held so dear, control, and after losing control she would have a long way back to regaining it. What she added the moment she entered her apartment would cause her to crumple up her list and drop it in the garbage can, because none of it would matter anymore.

She didn't know any of this yet. She was on the way to finding out. She was on the way to the lab.

And what she penciled in that night, with pictures flashing through her head of a bed with sterile white sheets encompassing a person who didn't belong, and people she didn't know standing in tightly knit groups speaking in hushed tones, and a man with no face sitting silently in a chair all alone, it showed that she'd never had a chance.

"Run the test."

* * *

Written September 6, 2008


	10. and I won't be able to fly

Written in response to Dying Changes Everything (5x01)

* * *

…and I won't be able to fly

She slid the glass door closed and glanced back one last time.

She'd been told she was different. She'd been told she had wings. She'd been told she could fly.

She was no different. Maybe she'd had wings once, but they were long gone. They'd shriveled up and fallen off and been thrown away with those test results.

She knew, even though she tried not to be, she was exactly like the patient. She did whatever her boss told her to, no matter how much she hated it, and even though she hated him, she desperately wanted his approval.

She tried to tell herself she was brave by taking risks, doing things that could kill her. But if she failed at those it would be easy. She would die. It would be painless.

If she did something like quitting her job to find one she liked better, or telling someone she had genuine feelings for how she really felt, she could fail. She could be rejected, and that was a lot harder than falling off a mountain or crashing a plane.

It was easier to go down in flames literally than metaphorically, ironic.

She didn't know what had possessed her to yell at that woman anyway, and then to go apologize and tell her life story to a perfect stranger.

If she wouldn't tell Cameron, who she knew would at least pretend to be sincere, or Kutner, who she'd always had a soft spot for, why would she tell this woman. Why did she have to explain herself. _Why do they care_?

She knew how that sounded, and she was close off, more so than she would have liked. But like most things, building relationships was something that could be failed at, and to her, it was just easier not to try.

She'd had a patient like that once, a drug-addicted musician. Some had stubbornly attributed his ailment to drugs, and though House had deduced that her connection to the patient was because of an alcoholic parent or druggie youth, it was really because, like her, he had decided to just not try, rather than have his attempts at anything met with failure every other time.

She thought about how some people could bounce back from a set–back. She envied them despite herself.

She thought about people like House, and Foreman, and Chase, and Kutner.

It would surprise most people to learn that she actually admired Kutner, the way he was capable of holding his life together while she was stuck picking up the pieces of hers, she way he could move on.

She thought about the patient, going back to the job she hated, serving the boss she hated. That in itself was failure, failure to make a necessary change that Thirteen knew she would never have been able to make. That was the ultimate decision, she decided, to make a change that could result in a large failure, or to not make a change, automatically subjecting herself to smaller failure.

She wanted to tell the patient she was just the same as her, but it was something she could hardly admit to herself, let alone someone she'd just met.

That was why Thirteen had wanted to change her. She'd needed to convince someone else that it was okay to fail once in a while to convince herself.

And with those test results that told her she was even failing at living, failing with flying colors, in fact, her faith had been thrown away as well.

She though about what she'd been told. _I'd rather spend my life near the birds than wishing I had wings_.

"We all have wings," she told herself. "We just don't all know how to use them."

* * *

Written September 22, 2008


	11. If you're reading this, you already know

If you're reading this, you already know

It had been ten years since Lawrence Kutner had left the practice of Dr. Gregory House. It had been nine years since he'd been married. It had been eight years since they'd adopted their daughter from India, and seven years since they'd purchased their first house.

It had been a week since he'd attended his wife's funeral.

They were cleaning out the house now, getting ready to move to some place smaller. Ever since his wife had been unable to work and her medical bills had started to steadily increase money had been tight.

He was rummaging through the closet throwing things into assorted boxes. It hadn't taken him long. All his wife's things had been packed into boxes and stored in the attic long ago, once it had been determined that she wouldn't be needing them anymore, and he didn't have many clothes.

He was throwing one last pair of shoes into a box when it crossed his eye, something he had missed, something that had belonged to his wife.

It was a tiny jewelry box, one for a ring. He considered leaving it closed, wondering if he could handle another painful reminder of the days when his wife had even been able to put on a ring. He sat there hold that little box for a while, until curiosity finally overcame him and he popped it open.

But he was surprised to find that there was no ring in the box. There was only a folder up piece of paper tucked into the pouch.

Kutner picked it from the box and carefully unfolded it.

_ I'm not going to address this note, because I don't know who it will go to._

_ It's May 20, 2008. I discovered yesterday that I test positive for Huntington's disease, but if you're reading this note, you already know that. If you were the first to read this note, you may already know that you were the most important person to me. The reason I don't know who this note will go to because, at the time of my death, I'm not sure who that will be. _

_I'm writing this now because I don't know how much longer I'll be able to write, and I don't even know if I will have found my most important person by then. _

_I just want you to know that, whoever you are, I loved you very much, and if I have any children, though I'm sure I won't, for obvious reasons, I'd like you to tell them that I loved them too. _

_I hope you don't find this two long after my death, but if you found it, you can rest assured that it was intended for you, because I hid it somewhere I knew you would be the one to find it._

_I just figured I'd leave a note, because I know I won't be able to talk when I die, and I could hardly express these feelings in any other way._

_Whether you're a doctor, a friend, a (former) colleague, or someone else, I'd like you to know how much I appreciated your sticking with me to the end. _

_I don't know what else I can say, because I don't know who you are, but whoever you are, I hope I say anything else I want you to hear before you read this, because if you're reading this, I'm already gone._

_I don't really know how to end this note either, because I don't know what name you'll no me by, so I just going to guess and hope that even if I'm wrong, you'll still know who this note is from._

_Thirteen_

It had been years since Kutner had heard his wife called that, but at the time she'd written this, that was the only name he'd ever heard her called by.

Kutner stared at the note for a long time before stowing it in his pocket. Even though it was incredibly impersonal, because she hadn't known who she was writing it to, it was special, because she had meant it for him.

It would be five more years until he would attend the funeral of the one other person he could think of that she might have been expecting the note to go to when she wrote it. It would be ten years until he watched his daughter graduate from high school and eighteen years until he would see her graduate from medical school. It would be twenty years before He would rejoice with his daughter over her new job at the very hospital where he'd met her mother. It would be twenty-five years until he met his first grandchild and twenty-seven years until he met his second. It would be forty-two years until he could, once again, sleep next to his wife, and every day of those forty-two years, ever to his funeral, he carried that note in his pocket.

* * *

Written September 28, 2008


	12. Once Upon a Time, The End

Once Upon a Time, The End

How odd is it that you're born in a hospital, you leave the hospital, grow up, have a family, achieve your goals, whatever, and then, once you're old, you come back to a hospital to die. It's like, you think you're doing really well, and then, at the very end, you realize you really haven't gotten anywhere. You're right where you were when you were born.

The patient was Erica Marshall, eight years old, and she was terminal.

Life isn't fair. It never has been. It never will be. Some people have rich parents that pay for everything their whole lives. Some people's parents are shot to death when they're six.

Kutner wasn't bitter, but he also wasn't too proud to admit that it was just about the most unfair thing he'd ever experienced, up until recently.

Some people would die quickly, like his parents, like Erica Marshall. Some people would have drawn-out deaths, like Thirteen.

That wasn't fair. She was young, intelligent; she shouldn't have to worry about things like that so soon. Kutner didn't know very much about her, but nothing he knew about her was fair. As far as he was concerned, if anyone had a reason to be bitter, it was her. And yet, she wasn't, not outwardly, at least. She just pretended it didn't exist, which probably wasn't the best strategy either.

To Kutner, what they had was a mutual respect between two doctors, both of which admired what the other had gone through. It was no grounds for a relationship. It was barely grounds for a friendship. Some people, people like them, had gone through difficult times and come out the other end. Some people, like Erica Marshall, never would.

A young, otherwise healthy doctor dying of a terrible disease while a drug addicted punk musician was cured and sent on his way, that was the most unfair thing. A little girl lying in a hospital bed, on her last days, while a death-row inmate was cured and sent on his way, cleared of all charges, that was the most unfair thing.

And these two, whose lives were ridiculously unfair, had overcome them. Erica Marshall was in her room playing Monopoly with her parents and her brother and sister. Thirteen was in the lab, making sure they hadn't missed something, anything, and here was Kutner, in the hallway doing nothing.

Why was Thirteen working so hard to save this girl? That was what he had asked himself. Now he knew. Because she cared about the patient, that's what Cameron, or Foreman, or Wilson, or Taub, or Cuddy, or Chase would tell you, but Kutner knew better, Kutner and House. They knew that this little girl, Erica Marshall, was a younger version of Thirteen.

Once upon a time, Erica Marshall was born. Then, Erica Marshall died. The End. That was it. That was both of their lives. Once upon a time, the end.

* * *

Written October 6, 2008


	13. Good Riddance

Good Riddance

It was late when Thirteen entered House's office. The rest of the team had gone home. She approached House's desk nervously, more nervously than she would have had House been sitting there. She laid an envelope on top of his keyboard, where he'd be sure to find it.

This had been no easy decision, but it was something she had to do. Her hands were already beginning to shake. To continue practicing would be irresponsible. She wouldn't risk killing someone so she could pretend she was imagining things. For too long she'd been dealing with this by not dealing with it. It was time to step up.

She couldn't leave yet. There was something she had to do. She slowly pushed open the door to the conference room and stepped inside the room for the last time.

It appeared just as normal. The white board was filled with symptoms, some circled, some crossed out and rewritten. The chairs at the table were all pushed in, except for Kutner's, of course. Over Foreman's chair hung the lab coat he never wore. There was an empty coffee cup in Taub's place. The normalcy of the room made Thirteen think of her colleagues, so unsuspecting. They would come in tomorrow thinking it was any other morning, only to find out that she wasn't coming back.

Thirteen really didn't have any possessions at the hospital. She'd cleaned out her locker earlier that day, before she'd run home for lunch, so she wouldn't have to face it during her last visit to the hospital. It would just be one more thing she didn't want to do.

She knew already what he colleagues would think. Foreman would say it was noble, self-sacrificing even. Taub would say she was still running, trying to get away from the hospital that contained the lab where she'd finally run the test. Kutner would probably agree with either Foreman or Taub, whoever had the most convincing argument. House would have a different theory all together. It would be completely unpredictable and completely wrong, but he would stick by it, support it with evidence from her personality. She almost wished she could stick around just to find out what it was.

Life would go on for them. House would hire a new fellow, or maybe he wouldn't, since he was only supposed to have three anyway. There would be a new case, new ethical dilemmas. House would tell them to do something crazy again, only to have them go behind his back and do something else again. Thirteen didn't really know where she was going after this. She hadn't planned ahead. She knew if she thought about it too much she wouldn't have the courage to go through with it, but she hoped her life would go on as well.

She sat in her chair, next Kutner's and across from Taub's, and closed her eyes, imagining that they were sitting there too. For the last time, she felt like a part of something, like someone had her back, like she didn't have to always be on her own.

She sat for a minute and then took a deep breath. She placed a shaking hand on the door and looked back at the room that had been like her second home for many months now. Her eyes fell on all the familiar features for the last time and she turned her back on it.

She walked down the hall towards the elevators, her eyes cast downward, letting only one tear slide slowly down her cheek before she shut herself off from emotion, as she had learned to do.

It would not be her last time coming down this hallway, riding this elevator, but it would be her last time as a doctor.

_It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right_

_I hope you had the time of your life_

_

* * *

_

Written October 11, 2008


	14. My Heart Will Go On

My Heart Will Go On

_Near, far, wherever you are_

_I believe that the heart does go on_.

_Once more you open the door_

_And you're here in my heart_

_And my heart will go on and on_.

It was funny sometimes, how the people you loved were always the first to go.

It took her a long time to get over the death of her mother. For the first year or so afterwards, everywhere she went her mother was following her. She was six.

Then there was nothing. There was a big empty space at the dinner table and in every photograph taken of her and her father, but that was it. The emptiness last longer, several years, and was worse than the feeling that you were being followed by someone who you knew perfectly well would be doing any following. Those were the years she isolated herself from the world, as if, if everything was empty she wouldn't feel the spot that was the emptiest.

After that, there was the numbness, when she trained herself to let things bounce off, when she walked through the halls at school with her head down and didn't talk to anyone the entire year, when she could no longer cry or laugh or feel anything. Those years of isolation had made her an empty shell.

Today, she's not a shell. She's not numb. She is still empty, and as much as she tries to fill the whole with things that won't fit, she wears herself down. It's like a puzzle. Only one piece out of the entire box fits the space, and no matter what you try to put their, if it's not that one piece, the puzzle won't be complete. Unfortunately, she lost that piece. The thing is, you can still see the puzzle without that one piece. It's still the same image. It just looks different.

Truth be told, her mother follows her still. She just grew used to it and didn't feel it anymore. Truth be told, her mother never left.

_You're here, there's nothing I fear,_

_And I know that my heart will go on_.

_We'll stay forever this way_

_You are safe in my heart _

_And my heart will go on and on_.

* * *

Written November 2, 2008


	15. Two What Ifs

Written in response to Last Resort (5x09)

* * *

Two What-Ifs

They'd been sitting in the conference room joking around. House was off who-knows-where and he'd left the team with no specific orders other than to look busy. Foreman, who was determined to do work at work, was helping Cameron in the ER. Taub had gone to get a coffee. That left Kutner and Thirteen to their own devices.

"What are you going to do?" Kutner had asked silently praying it was something he could include himself in.

"I don't know," she'd answered. "What are you going to do?"

They'd played a few games of hangman and tic-tac-toe, and then they'd moved on to arm wrestling, and they'd been surprisingly evenly matched. It had been her idea to make it interesting.

"The loser does the other guy's clinic duty for the next week," she'd said. Kutner hadn't been sure he would win at the time, but he'd agreed because he'd thought if he didn't she would get bored and leave. As it had turned out, that would have been better.

"Best of three," Kutner had said when he'd lost the first round.

Kutner had come back to win the second round. When Kutner had been dangerously close to winning the third round he'd had a though. _Let her win_. Usually when guys liked girls they would let them win. Kutner had never understood why, but the thought had occurred to him. _No_, he'd thought. _This is Thirteen, she wouldn't want that_. _She'd probably just take it as an insult_. As it had turned out, that would have been better too.

"My clinic duty starts in ten minutes," Kutner had told her as he'd pushed her arm to the table. "Better get down there." He hadn't expected her to leave right then. He hadn't wanted her to.

"Fine," she'd said, grabbing her coat. "But we'll finish this later. I'll see you in an hour."

He'd agreed and watched her leave the conference room and walk down the hall. He'd already started counting down the minutes until she'd be back.

Now he is sitting on a bench remembering. He remembers when he found out what was going on in the clinic. He remembers trying desperately to get downstairs. He remembers hearing the first gunshot, hearing the swat team come in, feeling his heart drop every time a hostage was released that wasn't Thirteen. He remembers hearing the explosion. He remembers walking through the hole in the wall to where House was kneeling. He remembers House's fingers on her neck, searching desperately for a pulse.

"He made her take it," he remembers House muttering. "I can't believe he made her take it."

"It's no use," he remembers House saying when he called for the paddles. "It binds with proteins in the blood. Her heart is already dead. This is Amber all over again."

He remembers standing there numbly until someone guided him away. He remembers Dr. Cameron looking down at him sympathetically.

"You loved her, didn't you," he remembers her asking. He remembers nodding. "I'm so sorry," he remembers her reply.

He remembers this while he's doing clinic duty, the clinic duty that she had taken from him in an arm wrestling contest.

What if it had been Kutner's fault she'd been in the clinic that day?

What if she died?

* * *

Written November 27, 2008


	16. I'm Sorry

Written in response to Last Resort (5x09)

* * *

I'm Sorry

_I'm sorry you had clinic duty at that particular moment._ _I'm sorry he wouldn't just take the medications without testing them on someone else first. I'm sorry someone else didn't volunteer instead of you. I'm sorry you had to test those particular treatments. I'm sorry they didn't blow up the wall just a little bit earlier. I'm sorry he didn't get cold feet at the last minute. I'm sorry you died earlier than you were supposed to. I'm sorry you had to die to save others. I'm sorry you died doing the only thing in your life that worked for you._

Kutner never knew what to say at cemeteries. One would think he'd be used to it by now, but Kutner wasn't sure this was something you'd ever get used to. It was one thing when it was your parents. You just told them about your day at work, about what you'd had for lunch, about the movie you saw; the things most grown children talked to their parents about. It was completely different when it was your friend.

_Well, she wasn't really my friend_, Kutner reasoned. They hadn't spoken much in the past few months. Really they hadn't spoken much ever, but Kutner didn't know that they'd spoken at all outside of the differential since she'd gotten her test results.

_Are you happy? Kutner had asked. Not particularly, she'd answered._

_Have you ever been happy?_ That's what Kutner should have asked. There were a lot of things Kutner should have asked, lots of things he should have said, things that didn't matter anymore, to anyone except for him.

"Um," Kutner began nervously. "House hasn't replaced you yet." He kicked at a pebble. "He has had interviews. They've all been, you know, the scholarly type, not that there's anything wrong with that. They've all worn skirts. I haven't seen a single pair of suspenders. And they all told House their names when he asked. I half-way think he might be holding out for someone who won't." The truth was that House had asked every single candidate their name as a last question, and told every single one not to expect a call once they'd told him. "None of them are someone I'd rather work with," Kutner sighed. "Cuddy made House keep a handful, six or eight, for extended interviews. They'll be around for two weeks. None of them can hold their own against House. None of them have managed to befriend Foreman. None of them wear a clock around their necks, literally or figuratively.

"Foreman's attempting to go about business as usual, but you know he doesn't really feel that way. I caught him staring at your old locker in the locker room once, and also at the chair you always sat in," Kutner said. "Taub, he's trying to do that too, but one of the interviewees mentioned Huntington's as a potential diagnosis and he had to leave the room for five minutes to gain his composure back."

Kutner hesitated, before beginning again. "I brought something for you," he said, laying down the large package on the mound of dirt. "That was your lab coat. You left it in Cuddy's office. I guess you knew that. I didn't think you'd want flowers. It didn't seem like you, but I guess I didn't really know you very well."

_And I'm sorry_.

* * *

Written December 4, 2008


	17. To Handle a Problem

To Handle a Problem

He is passing by the glass doors of the lab when he sees her. She's sitting on a stool at the far table, her head in her hands. He hesitates before going in. He doesn't know if she wants to be disturbed. Sometimes people just want to be alone. On the other hand, sometimes people want someone to talk to.

She doesn't turn around when he pushes open the door, and he doesn't know if it's because she's hoping that if she ignores him he'll go away or if it's because she just didn't hear the door open. He comes up nervously behind her.

"Are you okay," he asks quietly. It's a question he's asked her many times, though he's sure that she's never answered him truthfully, even once. But to his surprise she shakes her head.

"What is it?" he asks. He's not expecting an answer, so it comes as no surprise to him when she shakes her head. "Come on, what?" he prods.

"It's nothing," she answers, she he can tell from the tone of her voice that she wants to tell him.

"Clearly it's not nothing," he insists. "You don't have to worry about me telling anyone.

"Sometimes I wish I'd never been tested," she admits, as if this is something she's been needing to get off her chest. "I was doing better before."

"You're doing fine now," Kutner replies. "You're getting treatment. You're handling this."

She shakes her head. "It's just putting off the imminent," she sighs.

"But you seem so much happier now," Kutner says, confused.

"Well, I have to, don't I?" Thirteen answers as if it should have been obvious. "That's what people expect. Otherwise they'd ask questions. And they'd think I'm completely hopeless," she adds the last sentence almost as an afterthought.

"Well are you?" Kutner asks. It's a question that surprises him as soon as it leaves his mouth. It clearly surprises her too, because she looks up at him in shock.

"It's just that…" she hesitates. "I used to have this figured out, you know? I used to have this under control. Back when I only knew I might be dying I handled it."

"By making sure no one knew anything about you, including your name," Kutner said. "Yeah, you were handling it really well."

"Now that I know I'm dying," she pauses, thinking about how exactly to phrase her thoughts. "It's just different. Now there's not even a chance I'll live."

"That's not necessarily true," Kutner points out. "Maybe if you hadn't gotten tested, or if you'd gotten tested and been negative, you would have died in a car wreck yesterday, but since you got tested you didn't because you were staying late for treatment."

"What's you're point?" Thirteen asks, although he has made her smile, just a little bit.

"My point is that you never know," he answers.

"Well at least I wouldn't have had to know about it ahead of time," she says.

"No, but you would have died and none of us would have even known your name," Kutner replies.

"You never know," Thirteen argues. "If I been negative maybe I would have told you my name."

"Would you?" Kutner asks skeptically. She looks back down at the table. "And would you really want to go out like that? Nameless? We would have been called down to identify you and even though we'd have known you for a year, we wouldn't have had anything to tell them other than Thirteen? Is what you want on your tombstone?"

"They would have called my dad to identify me," Thirteen says.

"What do you want to bet that if you hadn't been tested I wouldn't have even been able to get an indication out of you that your dad was even still alive?" Kutner replies. She continues to stare at the table and he realizes that he's being rather hard on her. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I've never been in your situation before." She nods and he knows what she's thinking: that she deserves it. She doesn't.

"Nobody said it was easy," he says.

"What, dying?" Thirteen asks, meeting his eyes again. He nods. "Quite the sentiment," she replies. "Nobody said it was easy, but no one ever said it would be so hard."

* * *

Written January 29, 2009


	18. Through the Wind and the Rain

Through the Wind and the Rain

I have always been strong, but we live in a world harsher than most people know, and I hide my pain so they won't have to.

Everyday for as long as I can remember I have gotten up everyday, no matter how I felt. I have dealt with problems by myself and on my own time. I have dealt with problems without letting anyone else know that I even had them. But if you took away the dam, I would burst from the pressure. I hide my problems by doing exceptionally well at everything I try, because if you have a straight A student and a straight F student, which one are you more likely to send to the guidance counselor? Because even though I use the same strategy over and over again, no one ever figures it out.

Over the years I have met any people who could have helped me just by getting to know me if they had been willing to try. The only problem is that people never look hard enough to tell that I am wearing a mask and that I am not really what I seem. It's just that I have carried burdens since I was old enough to talk that most people will not carry in a lifetime, and those people can not possibly understand what it's like for a five year old to live with the weight of the world on her shoulders. What I want, what I wish for, doesn't matter because no one will ever know.

I have broken, but I have been careful. I have done it when no one is watching, when no one is listening, though it really wouldn't have mattered if they had been, because no one ever pays attention. I suppose someone has to keep the more terrible things in the world to themselves so that others don't have to know. It just really sucks that I'm the one that has to do it. By time anyone else finds out what I am living with it will be to late for me to be washed of the feeling, maybe it already is. So there is really no point in dragging anyone else down with me, in making someone else feel even a fraction, even for a minute, what I have felt in full force everyday for as long as I can remember.

I have always felt more or less invisible, and even if I were to leave a legacy I am certain it would be over shadowed by an even greater one. Even at my funeral I am sure no one will really see my face the way that only I see it. I am sure that no one will call me by the name I prefer to be called. They will call me by what they knew me as, and that will work for them. That will keep them from worrying over the fact that they never knew my really name, even the ones who thought they did. I have never had a teacher who remembered me after I left her classroom, and I can not help but wonder, will it be the same when I leave this world.

I am strong, but we live in a cruel world, and just because I hide my bruises doesn't mean I don't have them.

* * *

Written February 6, 2009


	19. This Time a Year Ago

This Time a Year Ago

This time a year ago Kutner was doing exactly what he is doing now, eating cereal and watching the season finale of his favorite show. Except this time a year ago he had no idea that the heroine would end up getting kidnapped for a month and a half and when they finally found her it would end in a huge shootout between the hero and his sidekick and the villain and his minions and that the sidekick would get killed by a bullet that could have come from either side, sending the hero into a downward spiral that would leave him questioning his powers and end the season with him going inside his self-conscious and battling demons. This time last year the hero, the heroine, and the sidekick were at the circus fighting evil clowns with blow-up hammers.

This time a year ago Kutner had just gotten home for the first time in nearly three days, but not under the circumstances he would have hoped. This time a year ago the patient had died. He'd been hit for the first time with the harsh reality that sometimes there's just nothing you can do. She hadn't died because of a mistake he'd made, because even though most doctors would disagree, Kutner thought that would have been better. When the patient dies because of something you did you can use guilt as a motivation. You can tell yourself, _This is what I did wrong. Now I know and I'll never do it again._ When the patient just dies you have nothing, just a hole reminding you that sometimes there was nothing you could have done, and that was the most depressing thought of all.

Kutner could now pinpoint every one of his close colleagues' whereabouts this time a year ago. Taub was just getting home to his wife. Thirteen was in the lab getting the results of the test. Foreman, Cameron, and Chase were out at a restaurant sitting in the same both they always sat in. Wilson was looking in on House before going home and finding the most depressing note he would ever read. Cuddy was in the intensive care unit asleep in a chair. House was also in the ICU, having just woken up from a coma. Amber was still lying in her hospital bed because none of the nurses could bear to move her, or even cover her up. It was one of those things where you couldn't stop looking even though you were horrified by what you saw.

This time a year ago Kutner had been wearing a red and white striped t-shirt and jeans. Taub had been wearing a lavender shirt with a maroon-ish tie. Thirteen was wearing a brown shirt, brown suspenders, and jeans. Foreman's entire suit was brown. Kutner didn't know how he remembered all this. It seemed odd that with all the crazy happenings of those three days the thing Kutner remembered the most vividly was what everyone was wearing.

There were lots of things about life that Kutner didn't understand, and those three days wear at the top of the list. Everything in between when Kutner got paged to go to the ER and tend to the victims of a bus wreck to the season finale was a little bit of a blur. Probably due to the fact that for most of that time he'd been running on caffeine and adrenaline. Maybe because Kutner was subconsciously trying to block it out. That didn't seem to far-fetched either.

This time a year and three days ago Kutner hadn't seen that finale, Amber was still alive, Thirteen didn't know she had Huntington's, Wilson was happy, House was as obnoxious as ever, not to mention everything else that had happened. None of them had ever been taken hostage this time a year ago. Cuddy didn't have a baby. Taub's wife didn't know about the affair. Thirteen and Foreman had hardly even spoken to each other. This time a year ago their biggest problem was that they were all still half-way expecting a S.W.A.T. team to burst through the door and arrest them for aiding and abetting in the kidnapping of Evan Greer.

Kutner was doing the exact same thing as he is doing now, but a lot had changed. His life was barely recognizable. It was simpler. That was understandable. A lot changes in a year.

* * *

Written February 16, 2009


	20. A letter to Kutner in Thirteen's name

Written in response to Simple Explanation (5x20)

* * *

A letter to Kutner in Thirteen's name

Kutner,

What were you thinking? Didn't you know we cared about you? Didn't you know we would have listened?

Everything's different without you. We're all pretending we're okay, but none of us are. We just don't want to let everyone else in. The three of us—me, you, Taub—we were a team. We had a weird kind of relationship, something that comes from being forced to compete against each other for so long before we were aloud to be friends. It meant we could joke with each other. It meant he could take whatever purposeless task House had us on and make it fun, like a game. It meant we could just look each other and tell what the other person was thinking. It was something just between the three of us, that no one else could ever understand. Why would you want to give that up? It comes around once in a life time.

Well, there won't be any games anymore. Taub and I can hardly look at each other without bursting into tears. It's an unspoken thing. It's another thing that's just between the three of us. No one else could possibly understand how Taub and I are feeling, not even House or Foreman, and even though this sounds really twisted, there's some kind of comfort in that. It's like when we lost Amber, only a million times worse, because we didn't work with Amber for two years. There was something about being the ones that made it.

I just want you to know that I hope you're still watching, because we're not through with you. Just because you lose the game doesn't mean you're finished playing, and I know, trust me, I know, that even though sometimes it looks like there's no light at the end of the tunnel, there always, always is. I just wanted you to know that, because I know that you thought this was the easy way out, but it wasn't. I just wanted you to know that because I'm mad at you right now, because I never got to say goodbye.

Thirteen

* * *

Written April 8, 2009


	21. I Bruise Easily

Written in response to Simple Explanation (5x20)

* * *

I Bruise Easily

It's funny how when no one's touched you in a really long time, even the smallest amount of contact can leave a mark, how a connection forms even if they only happened to bump against you, how if something happens to sever that connection it can scar you worse than if someone cut you open.

It's funny how when you're connected to someone and they're ripped from you without warning by their own stupidity, sometimes you just wish they'd never bumped against you in the first place. Because sometimes it's not worth it.

And sometimes it is. Sometimes that connection is unbreakable. Sometimes you feel that connection even after the person's in the ground. Sometimes it's a good thing when you can't move on, when you expect someone to walk through the door any minute at work the next day as if nothing's happened.

Connections are easier for some people than others, and I always had trouble with them. Bruises on the other hand, happen everyday, so much so that I've had to put on so much makeup to cover them up that I don't even look like me anymore. Sometimes, a bruise and a connection can come from the same place. Sometimes the bruise can outweigh the connection.

Sometimes it can't. I've realize over time that sometimes, no matter how horrible something is, no matter how much something a person does hurts you, it doesn't undo everything they've done to help you, and besides, they didn't hurt you on purpose, it just happened that way. No matter how much distress someone caused you, you are still glad you met them, because it was worth it.

I've realized that bruises heal, some more slowly than others, but they all do eventually. Cuts are what leave scars. The difference between cuts and bruises are that cuts are intentional. Who ever left the cut meant to hurt you. Bruises are purely by accident. The person who left the bruise probably didn't even know they did it.

I've realized that some bruises stick around longer than others, some bruises hurt when you touch them long after they were left. Some bruises turn black and blue and are clearly visible while other bruises are in easily concealable places. I've realized that there are all kinds of bruises, but no matter how long they stay or how much they hurt, the true test of the strength of a bruise is whether or not the connection can withstand it, and likewise, the true test of the strength of a connection is how well it can withstand the bruise.

I've realized that even though Kutner left the largest and most painful bruise of all, I would never ever wish I hadn't met him, because the connection is stronger. Because I still feel like he's standing right next to me concealing laughter at inappropriate times and asking me if I'm okay and but backing off when I need him to. Because it was worth it.

* * *

Written May 25, 2009


	22. Handle With Care

Written in response to Simple Explanation (5x20)

* * *

Handle With Care

Taub,

When you read this I'll already be gone, so I'm going to address everything that needs addressing and put this note somewhere I hope you can find it.

I'm not going to say the things people usually do in these notes. I'm not going to talk about why I did it. I'm sure that's the question burning in everyone's minds right now, but that's not what's most important. It will be done, and knowing why won't do anything to help anyone. All it will do is help House sleep better. No, I'm going to address something that I feel is the most important, something that will still matter when you find this, something someone can do something to help. This isn't a last ditch attempt to make you understand me better. This note isn't about me. It's about what you can do for someone else.

As you know, I was very close to Thirteen, almost as close as I was to you, and I do want you to know by the way, that it was very painful hiding this from the two of you for so long. I want you to make sure she's okay. She's been through a lot in the past year. Please make sure she doesn't fall apart. That's not the important thing I was talking about. It's just a thought. She's strong and she won't let you see how much this is bothering her, but don't buy that for a second. Talk to her. Make her crack. It's better that way.

On to business. Foreman, make sure he treats her correctly. I foresee problems because he likes to deal with things alone. Make sure he knows that whether or not she wants him to see it, she's fragile. Drop her and she'll break, especially after this. Make sure he doesn't just acknowledge her when it's convenient for him. Make sure she doesn't get lost in his ambition. Make sure he knows that she can't just be tossed aside and thought about later. Because I don't think he really thinks about that, about her, at all. That's just and outsider's point of view. I don't think he knows how lucky he is. Make sure he knows he can't change her to fit what he needs her to be. Make sure he doesn't try. She is who she is and if he can't accept that he's not someone she should be with. She's not some gold-digger or some trophy wife who will do whatever it takes even to be seen with someone of high stature. She has a personality, a character, that can't be hidden. She'll hate herself if she tries. She's a person, and no matter what Foreman thinks, he's no better than anyone else, and I don't want that for her.

You're probably wondering why I wrote this to you instead of Thirteen or Foreman themselves. I didn't write it to Foreman because I know he'll think I gave up the right to know what's best for anyone else when I decided to kill myself. You'll think that too, but you'll get over it. We were friends. I didn't write it to Thirteen for to two reasons, because she'll think I'm being overprotective and she likes to look out for herself, and because I don't want to put her through reading a note from me when I'm already gone. I saw how much she struggled with Amber, with patients. I know that even though she'll put up a shell so no one else will see, she'll be falling apart inside. I don't what to add to that anymore that I have to.

So please know that I'm asking you to do this because I trust you. I trust you to make sure she never finds out about this note. I would have trusted you with my life, with her life. Please don't fall apart. Please do this for me. Please make sure he handles her with care.

Kutner

* * *

Written May 26, 2009


	23. I'm So Sorry

Written in response to Simple Explanation (1x20)

* * *

I'm So Sorry

_I'm sorry you had a gun. I'm sorry they taught us about fatal bullet wounds in medical school._ _I'm sorry we didn't make you come out for drinks with us that night. I'm sorry someone didn't call you just as you were getting ready to do it. I'm sorry we didn't have a case that prevented us from going home. I'm sorry we took so long to find you and were blissfully unaware all morning. I'm sorry no one ever noticed anything. I'm sorry you were such a good actor. I'm sorry you thought you're life was so crappy you just wanted it over. _

Thirteen never knew what to say at cemeteries. That's why she never visited them. She supposed that maybe if she had in the past she would be better at talking to headstones. She suddenly wished she'd visited her mother more often, because surely, if she'd been doing this for years she would have been better at it, but it was probably different anyway. People talked to their parent differently than they talked to their friends.

_Not that we were really friends_, she thought quickly. They hadn't really spoken that much lately. They last time they'd had a conversation together was probably the unfortunate incident with the "cat" pee. It was hard to believe that the Kutner that had done that had committed suicide not two weeks later. Then again, she had noticed how he'd started taking House's jokes more seriously. He'd stopped simply laughing them off. _I should have known_, she instantly thought, and she wondered why she'd never asked him why. There were a lot of things she should have asked. She'd just always assumed there would be more time, and if there wasn't, she'd thought she would be the one leaving them behind.

"Cuddy isn't going to replace you," she began, hoping this bit of assurance that he would be missed was something he would want to hear. "She's got all these people coming in for interviews, but we all know she's not going to hire any of them. They've all worn ties so far, and none of them have worn jeans. Cuddy always asks them questions about the job as part of the interview. She always under what conditions is it not okay to defibrillate someone. They always answer something about the patient being wet, something about oxygen levels. That's when she sends them away.

"There were a few that she kept for 'extended interviews.' They're under Foreman's jurisdiction, with House being in a mental institution and all. He has them do things that none of us want to, or can, do. They were cleaning out your locker and Taub couldn't even go in the locker room while they were doing it. It was very rude of you by the way. If you're going to kill yourself the least you could do is clean out your locker, make it a little easier for the rest of us to handle, but I grabbed this," she pulled out a blue and white stripped shirt from her backpack and draped it over the gravestone. "I thought you might want it. It was your favorite, I think, but I apparently didn't know you that well."

_And I'm so sorry. _

_

* * *

  
_

Written June 10, 2009


	24. From Where You Are

Written in response to Simple Explanation (5x20)

* * *

From Where You Are

_I miss the years that were erased. I miss the way the sunshine would light up your face. I miss all the little things. I never thought that they'd mean everything to me._

Thirteen stood awkwardly in the cemetery. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been in a cemetery, and she was sure the black clothes stuck out against the green of the grass and the white of the tombstones. She could hear the traffic on the road behind her. She hated how often cemeteries built along busy roads. Every time someone drove by they would think, _she's lost someone_.

She approached the grave, but stopped a few feet from it. She stood there for a long time considering what she was going to say. This was much more difficult than she had anticipated. Eventually she took a few steps forward and took a deep breath.

"Oh Kutner," she finally whispered. She couldn't bring herself to make her voice any louder, but she didn't think it mattered. She was sure he could still hear her. "I can't believe this," she continued. "What did you do?"

She shook her head and blinked back a tear. "I didn't know you that well," she confessed. "I guess no one did, but that's not what I meant. I mean, we were kind of friends, but not really. I'm sorry about that," she squinted away from the headstone. In the distance she could see the old headstones, and the new ones were closer, but the area around Kutner's was empty. "I guess you're lonely even now," she observed. "You, if you ever wanted someone to talk to…you know, I've been through it before…almost killing myself," she hesitated. "I wish I could have helped." She looked away as a single tear sloughed down her cheek, and it occurred to her that, even though he was dead, she still didn't want him to see her cry.

"I used pills," she sighed. "It would have worked if my roommate had gotten back when she was supposed to instead of three hours earlier, thank goodness." Thirteen paused. She could feel the tears coming on. I"I wish you had had someone who could come home right in the middle of it." She wiped at her eyes hastily. "I just wanted you to know that." She finished.

She knelt down on the grass. "I miss you," she whispered through the tears that were now leaking out of her eyes and obscuring her vision. "And I wish you were here." She pulled something out of her back pocket, a single white rose, and set it gently in front of the headstone. She gasped in between sobs as she lowered her forehead to the cold marble of the grave marker and rested it their. Suddenly she had a new question.

"Kutner?" she managed, though it was barely audible through the waterfall of tears. "Are you happy?"

_I feel the beating of your heart. I see the shadows of your face. Just know that wherever you are, I miss you, and I wish you were here._

* * *

Written June 11, 2009


End file.
